


The Nottingham Chronicle

by orphan_account



Series: Through all of Time [5]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-31
Updated: 2011-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-25 03:01:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's interesting to go back and see how history has distorted stories.  Sometimes they didn't happen at all in the way we think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nottingham Chronicle

For outlaws, they were civilised by their own standards, more a bunch of men who had chosen to live outside the norms and make their own society. By force this meant they were outlaws and to live they’d resorted to stealing, but only from those who could afford it.

 

I didn’t know that when I was brought to their camp so I was understandably nervous but in no position to object.

 

Arranging a habit from the convent had been easy. Making my way on my own hadn’t. Even in my habit I wasn’t sure I’d be safe from the marauding gangs in the forests. So I was mad with fear when I fell over a tree root, gashing my leg badly and getting hopelessly tangled in briars and brambles.

 

“Ey up, what have we caught here, Friar? A kind of rabbit or hare, thinks?” The voice wasn’t Nottingham, more Northern perhaps and rough. The one that answered was much more cultured, almost Norman and educated.

 

“No, Nun that I know, friend,” a joke even! I dared to raise my eyes and found myself staring at four pairs of horses’ legs. Two male legs wrapped in sacking and cross gartered in twine, descended to join them and I prepared myself for the worst. I couldn’t see any higher than that but the vegetation holding me was being stripped away.

 

When I was put the right way up I could take a look at my rescuers or perhaps ravishers. The man who lifted me up was dark haired with eyes as blue as the sky, a lined face with bags under his eyes but a kind smile. Hope dared to flutter in heart when I realised he’d addressed his companion as “friar” and on looking I saw that, indeed, the man on the horse was in the brown robes of a brother.

 

“Nasty cut you got there, Sister,” the man on the ground said to me “Better have that treated or it’ll go bad. Take her up with you, Friar, here – use my cloak for padding.” He folded his cloak and handed it up to the monk who placed it on the front of his saddle before I was manhandled up to sit in front of him. It was the closest in my life I had ever been to a man and my cheeks burned bright red as I was held steady by a long arm passed across me, pressing me back against the Friar’s chest and stopping me falling off as they walked the horses on through the forest.

 

The older man looked across and laughed at my discomfiture.

 

“Have no fear, Sister; the Friar is no menace to you.” They seemed to find this a huge joke and then apologised that they would have to bind my eyes because our destination was secret. My leg was hurting abominably so I really didn’t care about a minor thing like not being able to see, apart from fearing that I would be even less balanced, so I grabbed the arm supporting me and held on for dear life.

I smelled wood smoke and heard the sounds of men talking before I was told that we had arrived. I had amused myself on the journey by imagining what I would write for this adventure in my chosen career of chronicler. Yes, it is unusual for a woman and yes I shouldn’t be so preoccupied with recording the minutiae of everyday life but I hope one day in the future there will be chroniclers in every town who will write interesting stories, not of the nobles but of folks who have lived to be 50 or chickens born with two heads or prize winning pigs, murders, beautiful new wives, the latest from the troubadours, players of bladder-ball, the sort of stuff that interests ordinary folk. So I was taught by my magister, Geoffrey of Monmouth and so I continue his work.

 

The voice of the man who hailed us was pure Norman.

“What game have you captured there, Robbie?”

 

“Our good deed for the week, Boss – injured Sister.” My new Northern friend replied as he took off my blindfold.

 

The man who was obviously the leader strolled over and positioned himself by the horse’s head to get a good look at me. He was tall and well built with a fine, noble face – this was not the rough peasant outlaw I had been led to expect. He made a courtly bow to me and introduced himself.

 

“Robert, Earl of Loxley, Sister. Our home is at your disposal.” I bowed my head in return and raised a hand in blessing

 

“Sister Marie-Ange of the Benedictine Order.” A good chronicler will stoop to any lie to ensure a good story to be written down for future generations.

 

Awkwardly but not roughly, I was helped down from the horse and supported as I limped over to the fire where the Brother boiled water to clean my wounded leg while his friend crouched down beside me, reassuring and telling me not to worry about my lower limb being exposed to their eyes. The young friar worked quickly and efficiently, cleaning and binding my leg with great assurance and then he gave me a herbal brew to drink. His eyes were green, his smile shy but when he looked at his friend his face glowed. The older man stood up and announced that it was time for him to go to bow practice. He bent to plant a swift kiss on the friar’s cheek and rested his hand briefly on his shoulder. This surprised me greatly and it must have shown on my face.

 

The young friar stared stubbornly at the fire as he folded a sack to make a cushion for my foot.

“Yes, Sister, Amor vincit Omnia … and that is true in the forest too. You are not in the world here, no more than in a convent and their rules do not apply here. We have our own rules here and yes, I’m his wife.”

 

Of course I had heard of such things, our own dear King was rumoured to be fonder of men than of women but to live openly as a couple? I was shocked but as I lay by the fire, the herbal draught making me drowsy and dreamy, I had time to reflect on this.

 

God forgive me because it is against the teachings of the Church but my reflections led me back to what the Friar had said “Amor Vincit Omnia” love conquers all. What harm was there in real love, after all? How can the comfort of one human being to another be sinful? If it were real love, was it really so very wrong? Perhaps in the future mankind would be more tolerant of those who loved their own kind. Who knew? When Christ said “My commandment to you is, love one another”, did he mean this?

 

I had a chance to observe the two of them over the next two weeks while my leg healed and I saw that it was true. The friar fulfilled all the duties of a loving wife and watching them sleeping, curled toward each other under the same blanket, I could only think that there were marriages between men and women that showed not so much affection and devotion.

 

I also had the chance to know their leader better. He was an extraordinary and fascinating man with brains as well as good leadership to his credit. One day he called to me by my name “Marie-Ange” without the title of sister and when I answered he knew that I was no nun. Forced into confession I told him my story and he laughed heartily, clapping me on the back and saying that if I were not a sister I could at least be called Maiden, an honourable title amongst these near-pagan folk. Sitting by him at the fire one evening I asked him about his name.

 

“I have heard you spoken of as Robin. Why is that?” He passed me the wineskin and leaned back against a log, staring up at the stars for a moment.

 

“If you are a chronicler, Maiden, you must know that people will take stories and adapt them to what they want to hear. You wish above all things to tell the truth but look at us.” He waved a hand around the well-organised, neatly laid out encampment. “We are a gang of murderous cut-throats, or a band of angels sent by God to relieve the burden of the poor – people choose their own version.”

 

I looked at him and shook my head. A chronicler existed to be sure that the facts were there for everyone to see.

 

“I am a dispossessed nobleman, a hated Norman but now that I have made sure that some of our spoils go back to the surrounding villagers, I am Robin, Puck, the good Saxon spirit, the one for whom the old wives leave out a dish of milk in the hope of good luck. Robin Good-fellow, Robin of the Wood … although my reasons for having the villagers on my side were more prosaic – those who have eaten bread bought with our gold are less likely to betray us to the Sheriff.”

 

“And your band – they are not nobles, they are outlaws, no?” I waved a hand at the men around us, mostly sleeping.

 

“Each has their own tale, Maiden but their reasons are noble. No man here is a desperate murderer who killed for the sake of it. Not even the Friar.” I thought he was joking with me but he continued in earnest. “That poor lad killed the Sheriff’s reeve. He has a higher price on his head than I do.”

 

Nothing had prepared me for this sort of news and I stared across at the blonde head, nestled into his lover’s shoulder, my eyes wide with disbelief.

 

“Believe it, Maiden” Robin continued “The reeve came to collect taxes from the mill by his friary and, finding no gold there, he decided he’d take it in the form of the miller’s 9 year old daughter’s virginity before throwing her to his men. The friar couldn’t stand by and see that happen so he seized a piece of wood and laid about him. He’s damn good with a fighting staff but he is a murderer, so judge for yourself if we are ruthless outlaws.”

 

He’d finished his piece and was settling down to sleep, shaking out his blanket. A glance across at me invited me to share it. The night was chill so I crept under it and by the morning the title of Maiden was no longer applicable.

 

I lay on the ground, the stars above me and wondered what history would make of the story I would write – Robin of Loxley, saviour of the poor; his trusty lieutenant the Little One – Robbie and poor Friar who had no name. I’d give him a name … Friar, what was it Robin had said? The good Saxon spirit, the helper .. Puck! I’d call him Friar Puck.

 

What would be made of me too, if I figured in the adventure? Marie-Ange, the Maiden, now Robin’s mistress … or would I be painted out of this scene by the artists of history?

**Author's Note:**

> I promise that there won't be many more of my AU Hist pieces. I know they aren't everyone's cup of tea but I find squeezing the boys into legend a real passion.


End file.
